


a man, a doctor, a soldier

by igniparous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con References, please don't read if you don't want to read about the aftermath of a rape, rape victim POV, stuff that isn't easy to read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igniparous/pseuds/igniparous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>After reading deuxexmycroft's "Assistance" around a year ago, I have had these nagging thoughts in my head.  While her wonderful fic doesn't deal with the after effects of Sherlock raping John, I have read many other fics that do.  I have always been discontented with them, however, because I don't think I have ever read a single one that deals with how John, as a man and as a soldier, would react.  There is a reason why many men never tell   anyone when they are raped, or only tell years afterwards.  There is an extreme social stigma.  As a man in his thirties and as an ex-army doctor, I think that John would not react in the way that many people portray him as doing.  Many have made him try to avoid the subject or pretend it didn't happen, but he wouldn't do these things, in my opinion, for the reasons they say he does.  This short piece is my interpretation of some of the things that might follow the events that occur in deuxexmycroft's "Assistance".  (You might want to read or re-read that first!)</p>
    </blockquote>





	a man, a doctor, a soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Assistance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/243777) by [deuxexmycroft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft). 



> After reading deuxexmycroft's "Assistance" around a year ago, I have had these nagging thoughts in my head. While her wonderful fic doesn't deal with the after effects of Sherlock raping John, I have read many other fics that do. I have always been discontented with them, however, because I don't think I have ever read a single one that deals with how John, as a man and as a soldier, would react. There is a reason why many men never tell anyone when they are raped, or only tell years afterwards. There is an extreme social stigma. As a man in his thirties and as an ex-army doctor, I think that John would not react in the way that many people portray him as doing. Many have made him try to avoid the subject or pretend it didn't happen, but he wouldn't do these things, in my opinion, for the reasons they say he does. This short piece is my interpretation of some of the things that might follow the events that occur in deuxexmycroft's "Assistance". (You might want to read or re-read that first!)

Afterwards, John spent a lot of time rationalizing that things were different than what they seemed. He would spend hours sitting down at his desk, staring into the grain as if it would give him the answers and reassurance that he needed. Sometimes, he would squeeze the edge until his fingernails were white and the wood gave the tiniest creak of protest. Most of the time, he would keep his hands in his lap; they would clench and unclench until his knuckles ached and his arms shook from exertion.

  
He went through every detail of that night with agonizing attention to detail, forcing himself to relive every moment in hopes that he might find the part where he said something or did something that would prove that he was wrong. John had never wanted to be wrong more at any other point in his life.

  
John couldn't remember very much of what happened shortly after he got shot, but what he does remember is the pain and one moment of complete clarity, like a hammer tearing through a sheet of glass: _Please let this only be a graze, please, God, let me live_. Past the panic, as a doctor and a soldier, he knew that it wasn't a graze, and he'd known that he had been shot. He still prayed, though, still wanted so badly to be wrong.

  
Not even that in that moment, John is sure, did he want to be wrong more than right now.

  
He had looked online, had asked Google for answers. There were thousands of pages to look at, but not a single one would give him the answer he wanted. _This couldn't have happened to me, this can't happen to soldiers, not to grown men, not to doctors_ , John wanted to scream at the machine. Instead he typed it, and nearly threw his laptop against the wall when he found a webpage that countered his arguments with useless platitudes and emergency numbers.

  
He had even attempted to find a pamphlet at the clinic. He went in early before his shift, before there were very many patients and hours before Sarah was supposed to be there. He had glanced all of these pamphlets over before when he was hired, but had never really read them. Maybe, he thought, one of them would give him the answer he wanted. He was hoping, a small part of him was able to realize, that the pamphlets would have some misleading or incorrect information. He looked anyway. As he was paging through a informational packet for a shelter for battered wives, a hand came down lightly on his shoulder. He jumped, the packet falling to the floor, and grunted, air vacating his lungs so quickly that for a moment it felt as if they would collapse.

  
"It's alright, John," he heard Sarah's voice behind him. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly for a moment. Sarah would know, now, she would guess. It was all over. He brought his hands up to his face, only then noticing how violently they shook. Sarah carefully bundled him in her arms, walking him slowly to her office. He stumbled as they walked, as he was still covering his face, but she led him carefully and set him down in a chair once they got there.

  
She cleared her throat, and kneeled down in front of him, putting her hands on his knees and stroking them gently. "Margaret told me that you've been stood in front of those informational packets for three hours, shaking and crying."

  
John gasped silently, and rubbed his eyes with this still-shaking hands, finding them wet. He sobbed, a body-wrenching cry that sounded almost as painful as it felt. Sarah sniffled, and in a tone that indicated she was also on the verge of tears she continued, "I know it's hard, treating patients who are abused," she paused, sniffed a few times and continued to rub his knee, "Do you want to talk about it? You know I'm always here for you."

  
John let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He felt the oddest combination of relieved and sick to his stomach. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or vomit. Instead he nodded, taking his hands away from his face and wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. He looked at Sarah's nose instead of into her eyes, for that was an impossibility at the moment. She patted him on the shoulder kindly, a touch that revolted John in ways he could scarcely express. He made no physical movement, though, and she smiled a wet smile up at him.

  
"Take the day, John, and phone me when you want to talk," she said softly. He nodded again.

  
She left the office shortly afterwards, and John followed her out after a few minutes. He walked out of the office and straight out of the clinic. He walked down the street, turned left, walked down that street, turned right, and walked down that street until he found his legs would walk no more, and he fell to his knees on the middle of the sidewalk and sobbed until his chest ached. No one stopped to ask him what was wrong.

  
When he was able to collect himself, he walked back to Baker St. and stared at his front door until Mrs. Hudson came to get him, nudging him out of his jacket and towards the fire to warm himself. She gave him a hot cup of tea and he stared at it. She tutted at him until he drank it down, and she sent him to bed, gently pushing him up both flights of stairs and leaving him laying in bed with a motherly kiss on the cheek. Numb, he fell into a fitful doze.

Needless to say, he never looked at pamphlets at the clinic again.

  
A few days later, Sherlock made John toast and tea.  Sherlock motioned for him to sit at the table and consume them.  He did; he was used to following Sherlock's direction, even now.

John ate the toast slowly, and sipped at the tea. Sherlock watched him carefully as he did so, but John never looked up from his plate and cup. He hasn't looked at Sherlock since that night and he has just uttered his first word to him: a quick and muttered "ta".

  
Sherlock wants to know something; John can tell even before he begins to eat. When he begins to speak, John's jaw clenches, but he takes no action except for a rather vicious bite of his toast. "Why," Sherlock begins, "are you so profoundly effected by my experiment?"

  
John freezes, drops his cup to the table. He can feel the anger rising, can feel his blood pressure skyrocketing. His hands begin to shake again, but he leaves them under the table, out of sight. He closes his eyes tightly.

  
He can feel the first signs of hyperventilation; so maybe not anger, then, but panic. When he attempts to speak, a croak comes out, some toast escapes his mouth like a visual interpretation of his previously carefully collected calm.

  
John tries to control his breathing, and manages some success through digging his fingernails into his palms. He swallows down the remaining toast crumbs in his mouth and manages, through clenched teeth, "I don't know."

  
Though his eyes have remained closed this entire time, he can practically see the look of disbelief on Sherlock's face. He wants to claw his grey eyes out.

  
"I don't know, Sherlock," he says slowly. "This doesn't happen to people like me. Middle aged men don't get... don't-" he trails off. "Not by their best friends, not by their flatmates." He opens his eyes, and finds himself staring right into Sherlock's. He looks away as if the sight burns. "I keep trying to tell myself that it didn't happen, you know that, and I'm going crazy. I must have said it was alright at some point so that it isn't that... that word." His entire body shudders and he glares daggers into his plate of toast. "But that's the problem, Sherlock, it is that. I thought I understood why this was different, why it was different than that time you punched me, the time you drugged my food for an 'experiment'." He spits out the word "experiment" as if it tastes bad.

  
Sherlock is still silent, but John can hear his breath pick up.

  
He continues on, "I never understood just how different it was. I don't know why it's so different, but it is. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and," his voice shakes, "I can't bear the thought of losing you and this and our life together and our friendship, but I'd like someone to explain to me how the fuck I can wash this feeling of dirty off my skin and how I can forget your fingers and your breath and your sweat," John stops, choking for air, and tries, again, to control his breathing. In a moment, he adds, more softly, quietly than before, "and your betrayal."

  
He stands up, and puts more distance between himself and Sherlock, standing with his back against the wall. He stares at a spot on the wall that used to be a fly. He'd killed it with a flyswatter and left in there on the wall as a reminder to all flies to stay out of their kitchen. Now, he felt sorry for the insect. He thinks he might know how it felt. His chair gets knocked down in the hurry to get against the wall. He wonders if he is more afraid of being near Sherlock or of losing him.

  
After several minutes of silence, John whispers, more quietly than before, "If I admit that I know what happened that night, then I am also admitting to allowing it to happen." He knows Sherlock can hear him, but he raises his voice just a little bit to be sure. "I'm a soldier, Sherlock, I'm a grown man, Sherlock." By the second mention of Sherlock's name, John is shouting. "I need you so much, but now my skin crawls when I'm around you, and I hate you for doing this, I hate you so much!" He sinks to the floor, his head on his knees and his hands fisting the fabric of his trousers.

  
John can hear Sherlock shift in his chair and make a move to stand. He nearly shrieks, "Stay where you fucking are!" Sherlock sits back down in his chair with a thump.

  
Weakly, Sherlock returns, "I caught the rapist, John."

  
John knocks his head, hard, back against the wall. "But you became one in the process," he whispered.

  
Silence followed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry for any offence that you might feel. I am in no way implying that rape effects men differently; in fact, I am arguing the opposite. However, there is a big difference in the way that society treats male rape victims as opposed to female ones. Therefore, I think that John, even as a doctor, would have difficulty admitting to himself what occurred and, due to his friendship with Sherlock, taking the steps needed to leave Sherlock.
> 
> There will be no further sequels to this. I am only posting it due to my frustration, in hopes that someone else who feels the same way as I do might read it.
> 
> The ending cuts off where it does because I honestly don't have any clue what would occur after that.


End file.
